


Disorder

by Measured



Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: Community: hc_bingo, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-26
Updated: 2016-06-26
Packaged: 2019-02-26 05:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,316
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13228866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured/pseuds/Measured
Summary: The world might be saved, but the scars remain.





	Disorder

**Author's Note:**

> Laurent's father is Ricken, though it doesn't come up. Noire's father is Henry.
> 
> I headcanon Miriel and Laurent as OCD due to a lot of their behavior.
> 
>  
> 
> I figure all the kids have varying degrees of PSTD, some are just better at dealing it than others.
> 
> [](https://hc-bingo.dreamwidth.org/profile)[](https://hc-bingo.dreamwidth.org/) **hc_bingo** : Abandonment issues.
> 
>  
> 
> [One of Noire's shining tile lines reveals that she really likes gold, and seems to have a fixation on it.](http://fireemblem.wikia.com/wiki/Noire)
> 
>  
> 
> Several of Laurent's endings mention him writing a novel about his adventures.
> 
> I am #ActuallyOCD and this was a way to deal with The OCD. (though I don't have handwashing or being a germophobe as symptoms.)

He took the fork and arranged the peas on the plate. He separated them until they were an exact distance from the meat. She'd scraped off the burnt edge, but her mind still berated her. She couldn't cast a curse, she couldn't cook without burning things.

Street vendors were too dirty for Laurent's taste. Each vegetable had to be washed individually, then boiled until they were 'pure enough to consume.' His exact words.

He grimaced as one of the peas dropped onto his gloves.

She bit back the constant need to apologize as he pushed the chair back from the spotless table.

"Laurent?" she said.

"A moment, if you will."

He peeled off his glove. His hands were rubbed red and raw again when he removed the gloves. He made just a hint of a grimace as he put his into the basin and lathered the harsh lye soap over his hands. The water ran down pink. Before her, he'd only touched books and maps. She'd never once seen him even touch the shoulder in affection to any of the others, not even his mother.

He walked outside to pour out the basin, and rinse out any hint of uncleanness. Every morning he woke before her to banish any dust, until the house was spotless. When he cooked it was never with uneven spots, or burnt on one side. Many would consider her lucky, to have a husband who took such meticulous care to chores.

If only she didn't feel like another speck of dust, mote of disorder among it all.

He had never said a word to this effect, but the memories always provided her with the words.

_Not enough to save your mother. Couldn't even make a proper curse to kill some Revenant. You stuttered, and sobbed while your mother died._

And these words kept her silent, kept the gap between them widening. Every moment together, the ghosts kept saying:

_He could do better than some broken half of a girl, don't you think?_

And how could she fight with a ghost? She had so many. Her mother had always sworn that if she was killed, she would haunt whoever stole her life away. What she hadn't said was that she'd always be at the corner of Noire's eye, a repeating memory of blood and broken bodies.

He returned, smelling strongly of soap. Her knife scraped against the plate, and he looked up. "Sorry," she said. He didn't look up. When he was putting things in order, he would become so consumed that it would take turning to her other side to catch his attention.

Was he worse now? Better? The answer fretted at her, tearing and repeating. There was never peace long, not when the doubts could scrape at her insides.

"Did you find any interesting materials at the library, mayhaps? I found good historical scrolls, and some of my grandmother's published papers. It will sure be good research for the novel," Laurent said.

Water spots covered the front of his tunic. He touched them, murmuring just an incantation. His precision with magic was enough that he could start fires within fireplaces without setting whole towns ablaze, and warm hands on the coldest of nights with a simple word.

She'd never seen anyone with such control. Not her mother, or even Miriel.

 _Do you really think you are smart enough, strong enough for anyone? You can't even cast a curse right_ came the ghosts. Not her mother, but others. Dark voices and faces which lived in her dreams and all waking moments.

"S-sorry... I have a headache," she said. She pushed her chair back and left towards the bedroom. Even when she closed her eyes in the dark, the ghosts still berated her.

*

After the war, it'd gotten worse. With the war, there had been a constant pushing them forward. There had been family members, where at least she could pretend at times that everything would change. On her own, she had to deal with the loss of this mother as well, and all the complex feelings it brought in her.

No more fear of the black tinge of curses at every room. No more hints of her father's laughter, and the joy as mother made every room full of darkness and curses. That time could never be. Seeing this version of her father and mother had only made salt in the wounds.

They would never be her parents, even if this version of her mother was kinder, less twisted by vengeance.

Seeing happy people, peaceful and without fear only reminded her of all the happiness she'd lost, and would never have. Like a ghost, the memories of people they couldn't save haunted her. At night, she wanted to reach out to touch his side. It must've been just as hard on him. He'd traveled so long and hard to find his mother, and she hadn't even believed that he was true, not until several rigorous tests.

And as much as she wanted to bridge this distance, those memories kept her voice silent. The other side, bubbled deep within her.

*

As he chose the produce and meat for their meal, Noire pushed ahead. He'd given her hair decorations, and twice, talismans stitched to increase her resistance to magic. If she could find a gift, would it make up for her silence? Would it make up for how she couldn't even save her mother, let alone be a good spouse, or partner to anyone.

Through the cobblestones streets, she came to a wooden stand. A single glass bottle was precariously close to the edge.

"Now, a lovely girl like you could appreciate a gift like this," the shopkeep said. He had a thick mustache, which distracted her past his brightly striped tunic--to garner attention, surely--and his tall striped hat. That was caught her, other than the revulsion and pulling back at realizing she was being flirted with.

"How much?" she said.

She felt regretful to lose the gold. Shopping was hard, as the lovely gold would no longer make such pretty sounds in her wallet, but for him, for a single smile.

He named a price, too much, but she laid the coins down across the table.

Finally, she could start paying him back for all the affection and love he'd given her, and the distance she'd put between them.

*

"I brought this from the market. Rose was all I could afford."

The bottle was frosted glass, a lover's gift. Perhaps too expensive, and yet, the rest had been sold out. Even married, she felt like there was a space she couldn't cross. And it was her, the halves didn't fit and the ghosts told her nightly how this happiness could never last.

"For your hands," she said more softly.

His gloves were back on. Few had ever seen him without them. She might be the only one in this world.

His smile made all the seeming sternness which had originally made her pull away when they first met fade away. "Thank you, Noire. Most appreciated."

"Shouldn't you use a cure staff? ...I don't want your hands to hurt."

"If I keep that up, it will be a strain. This happens often, I'm afraid."

"It won't be much," she said.

"Still, that is an expense--"

"Quiet your needless excuses and heal yourself!" Noire bellowed. The glove dropped, and his face flushed. Unlike the others, he only quivered in sheer joy at her feet, not fear.

"Oh, I'm sorry--" Noire began. Laurent held up his hand.

"You never have to apologize for bringing out my smoldering goddess of wrath. he truth is, I'm truly delighted that you're speaking again so freely. You became so quiet. I wasn't sure what to do...this seemed some failing of my own, but I couldn't tell how to repair it."

All the pent up feelings, the words from ghosts came out at once. She didn't cry, at that moment, though she felt the same awful twist in her stomach as years worth of pain started to bleed out, like a lanced boil.

"You're always so obsessed with perfection! How can you even like me?" The sob came out before she could stop it. Laurent was the only one who ever liked every half of her. And yet the thought kept coming over and over _how could he ever like you?_

The thought of losing this happiness was unthinkable. And yet, the constant worry came. _You'll let him down, just like you let down your mother._

"Wouldn't it be easier if you could erase me and only _she_ was left? She's so good at violence and yelling--nothing like me! Maybe then you'd have a happy life."

He stroked across her white hair, and brought her closer to him. She rested her head against his chest, and allowed herself to be taken care of, as he had so many times when he picked up water jugs or brought extra food for her Anemia.

"That would be my worst nightmare. Far worse than the time we've left. I wouldn't know what to do with the loss of either one of you, truth be told."

"If it is my own failing, then I truly must apologize. I never wished for you to think upon yourself. I know I have not always listened, and at times I cannot help but check first, to make sure you are safe---"

"No...this happened long before I...knew you. I've never been able to escape it," she said. Her voice edged into a whisper, but he still heard.

"The truth is, It is a ghost in my mind forcing me forward, continually reminding me until I purge myself of these thoughts. I remember the blood--" He shuddered at the memory. "I cannot stop, I keep scrubbing and yet it doesn't cease. The corruption eats at me and distracts me away. I close my eyes and I see nothing but those people dying. Their cries."

She closed her eyes. Her nightmares were the same, and sometimes they'd bleed into daylight. Waking nightmares.

"Me too," she said. She looked up to him, and his wry, pained smile.

"I have nightmares, too. But they come in the day as well. Those awful things that happened to all those people. I can't be fixed, and you... I'm always going to be a mess, a complete mess. Maybe the new me, the one of this time will be better, but for me, it's too late...."

She wrapped her arms about him, and clung tight. "I saw my father..the one of this world, holding the new Noire. Of this time. I'll do whatever I can to ensure she never has to see people die...like we did."

"In the end, you're haunted too," Laurent said.

Even with Laurent near, the memories came. He pulled her close. "I was afraid my...eccentricities had grown irksome."

"Never!" Noire broke out suddenly. "Do not sell yourself short, you are my husband, you quivering wretch!"

She held her hand over her mouth in shock, but Laurent laughed. "Your lovely other side is very wise. I was foolish, as well. We saved the future, and your sleeping had gotten much better. But then--"

"I got worse," she said flatly.

She was supposed to be happy. The ghosts were supposed to be gone, along with the timeline they'd saved. But happiness never fully came. Even in his arms, the insecurities, the darkness would seep in.

"We can fight the ghosts together," Laurent said.

She pulled back enough to cradle his hands in hers, a dark light between her palms. The energy shone purple under his skin. Scars and redness healed, until his skin was smooth and unbroken again.

"You--you always told us you couldn't curse," Laurent said.

"My father loved curses so. This was the very first one he taught me, when I scraped my knee. I was so good at it, too. When mother's fingers turned black and with open sores from working so hard to avenge him, I....could heal them. But she wouldn't teach me anymore. Not even how to speak with the dead. I couldn't even call up her shade as comfort," Noire said.

"It hurt to remember them, so I...stopped. I stopped trying to learn and just tried to survive," She looked to her hands, which still tingled with magic. "I forgot how in the most important moment. I c-couldn't even fire off an arrow... I hope you didn't think it was disgusting...the curse," she said.

"Don't be ridiculous; your curses are truly fascinating. The thought that you could heal with dark energy is most astounding."

She still needed to be guided through the dark, she still would worry and have nightmares.

"I don't think I'm ever going to to get better. I'm going to keep clinging to you... I'm going to apologize too much, and burst into fits of anger."

"Noire...that's you. If you tried to change yourself, then I would be most sad. These things you see as faults are beautiful to me."

She rested her head against his chest.

"I am at fault, too. I will tell you every day how each fear is unfounded, and I will hold your hand until the nightmares are beaten back."

For the first time in a long time, she had hope.

*

That night she curled in towards him. The anxious edges had lessened until she could breathe. He smelled like roses, and his ungloved hands were smooth against her. It wasn't perfect, it never would be. They were broken halves that almost fit together, but with cracks and sharp edges. Chattering ghosts in their minds, and dreams that wouldn't go away.

He put his arms about her and pulled her close. The ghosts had grown silent, but when they returned, they would be ready for them.


End file.
